


The Tragic Sound of Other People's Suffering

by gallagherfamilyreunion (PrincessPeach)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1797790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessPeach/pseuds/gallagherfamilyreunion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mickey hates the blues and is not jealous. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tragic Sound of Other People's Suffering

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-4x09 (again); rated for language/smoking and a very brief mention of past child abuse. Written for Gallavich Week 2k14, Day Three: Jealousy.

Mickey wouldn’t go as far as saying he’d rather be anywhere else than this stupid blues bar that was trying so hard to be cooler than it was, but he could think of a lot of places he’d rather be.

The bar itself wasn’t so bad: It was a pretty standard hole-in-the-wall-type place, with exposed brick walls hung with an assortment of old-fashioned alcohol- and tobacco-related signs, and Mickey probably would have felt right at home if Kev had been the one pouring the drinks. But the patrons were a bunch of overdressed, over-educated pricks who wore an air of superiority like a badge of honor and casually tossed out words like “Freudian” and “intersectionality" as they engaged in contests to see who could have the longest, most boring conversation. 

And then there was the music itself—which was actually very good objectively speaking—a classic blues band with an attractive frontman who was extremely soft-spoken but became an electric ball of charisma once the show got started, blowing everyone away when he stepped up to the mic and began to belt out the opening chorus of “She’s Tuff.”

The singer/lead guitarist was clearly the star of the show, but the bassist, drummer and keyboard player were all more than adequate. Still, Mickey couldn’t help but cringe: Blues was for people who didn’t already have enough pain and suffering in their lives, in his opinion. If you were already dealing with that shit, why would you want to be reminded of it when you were just trying to listen to some music?

Not to mention that fucking Terry was a huge SRV fan;  _Texas Flood_ had provided the soundtrack to more than one session with the belt when Mickey was a kid. But as long as “Pride and Joy” wasn’t on the set list he thought he could manage without too much trouble, if for no other reason than that it looked like Ian was having the time of his life.

Then again—as was the case more often than not lately—it was because of Ian that he was even there in the first place. Apparently one of the Fairy Tail regulars owned the bar and had (naturally) invited Ian to come check out the show; Ian, in turn, had (naturally) insisted that Mickey tag along.

“Aren’t they amazing?” asked Ian once the set ended. The bar was a little less than half full, not a bad turnout for a Tuesday night, and they had decent seats at a high-top on the edge of the empty dance floor.

“Yeah,” agreed Mickey, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he took a swill of his microbrew/IPA/craft beer/whatever and wondered what exactly made it worth $12 a round.

“Ian! Glad you could make it,” said a slick older man who seemed to approach their table out of nowhere. “And this must be your date…?”

Everything about the guy rubbed Mickey the wrong way but he held his tongue, leaving it to Ian to make the introductions. “Um, yeah, this is Mickey. Mickey, Donovan. He owns the place.”

“Guilty,” Donovan said rather campily. “How are you liking the band?”

“They’re really great,” Ian gushed, his enthusiasm making the older man chuckle.

“Aren’t they? Mark my words: Give it a year, maybe two, and they’ll be playing on SNL. Well, at least Johnny will. He might have to ditch the dead weight first,” Donovan finished in a conspiratorial stage whisper. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Don’t worry,  your secret’s safe with us,” Ian assured him.

“Of course, I know I can trust you,” the older man replied, looking at Ian fondly in a way that made Mickey’s stomach churn. “Now, can I get you boys anything?”

“Yeah, another round,” Mickey chimed in. “And a couple of shots of Jack,” he added, figuring they might as well at least get some free drinks out of the thing.

Donovan replied with a chipper “Coming right up" and excused himself, leaving the pair alone again.

A dozen questions about Ian’s involvement with the him rose to Mickey’s mind but he pushed them all away, realizing that it definitely wasn’t the time or the place for an argument. But Ian was too perceptive for that and also didn’t hold his liquor quite as well as Mickey, so he had no such reservations about raising the topic.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” Mickey insisted unconvincingly.

“You wanna know if I’ve sucked his dick,” Ian said bluntly, with a defiant stare.

“Have you?”  Mickey couldn’t help asking despite the fact that he really wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

There was a long, tense pause before Ian replied.

“Yes.”

“Goddammit, Ian,” Mickey said, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice even though he had braced himself for that answer. It was like the difference between aiming a gun and pulling the trigger, and Mickey felt that Ian could not have done him more violence if he had actually shot him in the heart.

“Oh, come on, Mickey, don’t be jealous,” Ian replied, completely misreading his reaction.

“Jealous?” Mickey repeated. “Of that creepy old bastard? No way, man.”

A server approached the table with their drinks, preventing him from going on. “Alrighty,” he said as he placed two foaming pints in front of them. “Two Fat Tires?”

“Hey, what did you just call us?” Mickey replied hotly.

“I, um… what?” the server asked in confusion.

“What. Did you. Just. Say,” Mickey repeated through gritted teeth in a slow, vaguely threatening cadence.

“Um, Fat Tire? It’s the name of the beer…”

“Thanks,” Ian told him on behalf of a suddenly quiet, slightly embarrassed Mickey.

“Sure,” said the server with a smile, instantly succumbing to Ian’s charm. “I also have two shots of Jack Daniels?”

“We’ll take ‘em.”

The server left and Ian slid one of the shot glasses over to Mickey, who was angrily refusing to meet his gaze.

“What, are you jealous of him too, now?”

“I’m not jealous,” Mickey insisted. “Jesus, Ian, I—”

The opening chords of the band’s next set cut off the rest of his sentence, and it was the last straw for Mickey.

“Fuck it, I’m gonna go have a smoke,” he said, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair and walking away from the table.

* * *

A good, long drag took the edge off Mickey’s frustration, but all the nicotine in the world couldn’t have made it vanish completely. Exhaling slowly, he pulled his arms close to his chest as a shield against the cold, crisp night air. He vaguely regretted not doing that shot before making his dramatic exit; it probably would have made the temperature a little easier to bear.

Mickey smoked his cigarette down to the butt and then tossed it to the sidewalk, preparing to head back inside. But at that moment the doors swung open and a pair of happy drunk girls came out of the bar along with a full-on blast of angsty, sorrowful blues, and Mickey knew he wasn’t ready to face the music quite yet.

So he shook another cigarette loose from the pack, brought it to his lips and lit up. Lost in thought and with his back to the door, it took him completely by surprise when he heard a familiar voice saying, “Hey,” directly behind him.

“Fuck, Gallagher,” Mickey said, cigarette dangling from his lips. “You looking for a beating? Don't surprise a guy like that.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever. You’re the one who’s gonna end up with a split lip one of these days.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ian pointed out with a smug smile. “You were gone a while, everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

Ian eyed him carefully, clearly not buying it. “Funny, you didn’t seem fine back inside.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Mickey said stubbornly.

“Look, it’s just my job, alright? If you’re gonna get pissed every time I’m hanging out with another guy, then—”

“You really are a dipshit sometimes, you know that?” Mickey cut him off to set the record straight once and for all. “I’m not fucking jealous, Ian, I know what you and I have is real. I know that. So I don’t give a fuck about any of those other guys. But I do give a fuck about you getting treated like shit, or used up and tossed away like garbage because you don’t know that you’re—fuck,” Mickey broke off, unsure whether he could continue.

He had already laid himself bare in a way that he hadn’t thought possible, but going on meant taking an even bigger risk. Mickey took a long drag to steel himself and then barreled forward, because at that moment he realized that he cared more about Ian than he did about any damage he might suffer as a result.

“You’re special, okay?” he told him, not caring one bit how cheesy it sounded. “You’re important, and you matter. A lot, to a lot of people.”

Ian shifted, avoiding his gaze. “I know,” he replied.

The shadow of a sad smile flashed across Mickey’s face, and then he continued. “See, that’s the thing,” he said. “You talk like you do, and you act like you do, and you’ve fooled pretty much everyone into thinking that you do. But if you really knew, all this shit from the past few months—taking off on your family, the guys, the drugs—you wouldn’t be doing any of it.”

For a moment Ian’s expression was unreadable, and Mickey worried that he’d gone too far, pushed one too many buttons. But then his mask broke: Ian looked skyward, glimmering pools forming under his eyes.

“Shit,” Ian said with a sniff; he was keeping it together, but barely. “I think I fucked up, Mick.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Mickey was beyond relieved that he had gotten through to him, but also way over his limit for touchy-feely bullshit for the day. “Everyone fucks up though, right?” he added, offering Ian the last puff of his cigarette.

Ian accepted without hesitation, closing his eyes as he inhaled. “I don’t really know what to do now,” he confessed, exhaling.

“You’ll figure it out,” Mickey assured him, walking back to the bar entrance. “How about we start by going back inside, and finishing our drinks, and listening to the sound of other people’s suffering. I hear it’s kind of a pick-me-up.”

Ian smiled a bittersweet smile. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

**Author's Note:**

> [gallagherfamilyreunion](http://gallagherfamilyreunion.tumblr.com) on tumblr :))))) Also yes the title and that quote are from a Futurama episode, shh don't tell anyone.


End file.
